


all through the night

by Catja



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Smut, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, F/M, Grooming, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pseudo-Incest, Teasing, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22027018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catja/pseuds/Catja
Summary: When Clarke was four, she decided she wanted to marry her godfather. Twelve Christmases later, she hasn’t changed her mind.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Marcus Kane
Comments: 5
Kudos: 126
Collections: Merry Glebmas 2k19





	1. sleep, my child

**Author's Note:**

  * For [persephades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephades/gifts).



> title is taken from the christmas lullaby 'all through the night,' covered [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8X-dZ7G2To) by nick lachey. a merry glebmas and happy new year to you all! hope you enjoy this, persephades! part ii will be up within a couple of days.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the night before christmas eve

When Clarke was four, and decided she wanted to marry Daddy, she didn’t mean Jake.

She meant Marcus. 

It was Christmas, and Marcus, Uncle Theo, and Wells came to stay for the week like they always did, long enough for Clarke to get used to them again, but not enough time for Clarke to stop thinking their presence was special. 

Marcus was always Clarke’s favorite. He was her godfather, so he got to spoil her dreadfully the two weeks a year he got to see her— his Christmas visit, and the joint vacation they took to the lake house Marcus, Uncle Theo, and Jake bought together a couple of years back. None of them had much in the way of family, so they made do with each other. 

Every Christmas after that, Uncle Theo would ask if Clarke still wanted to marry her Daddy when she grew up. Clarke eventually switched to calling him Uncle Marcus instead of Daddy, mostly once she noticed Abby cringing every time she said it, and she stopped answering “yes” once Wells told her she couldn’t marry anyone that old, but no one ever forgot. It became the family joke, tossed around every time Marcus reported another coworker asking him why he was still single or when he was going to find someone. 

Clarke _hated_ it, hated the teasing grins everyone sent her way, hated the fond, indulgent smile Uncle Marcus would send her way, hated the way it made her feel four years old again, innocent and naive and foolish in all of the worst ways. 

Uncle Marcus was the only one who wasn’t mean about it, but the way he was nice was almost worse, like she was just a little girl he needed to coddle.

Twelve years later, Uncle Theo and Wells go on a cruise for Christmas, so Uncle Marcus is the one to ask Clarke, the night before Christmas Eve after Mom and Dad had gone up to bed. They’re sitting in the parlor, lit only by the dying fire and the tree, finishing off the pot of hot chocolate Abby made. 

“So, Clarke,” Uncle Marcus asks, refilling his Santa mug and topping it off with the creamer Clarke isn’t supposed to know is full of Bailey’s. “Have you changed your mind about marrying me yet?”

“ _Ugh._ ” Clarke flops back against her pile of pillows in front of the fireplace and crosses her arms over her face to hide the blushing. “Are we ever going to just drop it?” 

“Not as long as you keep reacting like that,” he says, with his usual fond grin. “Come on, sweetheart, you know we’re just teasing you.”

But this year, it’s just too much. Clarke curls onto her side, away from him, and does her best not to cry.

She’s not quite successful, and as soon as there’s a sob she can’t quite keep back, Uncle Marcus is on the floor next to her.

“Oh, baby girl, what is it?” he says, one hand come to rest on her shoulder, pulling her onto her back. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Clarke looks up at him. The wetness clinging to her lashes makes the whole room glowy and out of focus. It’s easier to let it out, like this. 

“I just- I don’t need to be reminded that it’s dumb, and _I’m_ dumb, just some dumb _kid_ , and you’re going to find someone else someday and marry them _instead_ , and you’ll be someone _else’s_ daddy and you won’t be _mine_.”

Uncle Marcus doesn’t say anything for a long minute, and when Clarke wrenches away from him to curl up again, he lets her go. 

“Oh, _Clarke_ ,” he says, finally, and Clarke peeks over her shoulder to look up at him. She knows he’s being serious because he said her name, instead of _sweetheart_ or _baby girl_ or _darling_. “I didn’t know you meant it.”

“Well, why wouldn’t I?” Clarke says, the embarrassment turning to frustration. “You— you’re my Daddy. You know me and take care of me and love me and protect me more than anyone else. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to want?”

Uncle Marcus smiles at that, slow and wide. “That’s right, sweetheart. No one else will love you like I do.” He sits back against the couch and stretches his legs out, patting his thighs like he used to when Clarke was _really_ little. “Come here.”

Clarke obeys, sitting across his lap and draping her arms around his neck. 

“You really want to be mine?”

Clarke nods, eyes wide on his. “More than _anything_. 

He pulls her even closer, wrapping her up safe and warm in his arms. It’s been a long time since Clarke has been close to him like this, completely surrounded by him, but it’s still familiar and comfortable, even if she can’t quite tuck her head under his chin like she could when she was younger.

“You want me to wait for you to grow up? Make you my little wife?”

Clarke shivers at the thought, the picture of him waiting for her, tall and strong and so handsome, at the end of some aisle, waiting for her so he can make her his. “Uh-huh,” she says, thinking of what kind of dress she’d pick out to make herself the most beautiful she could be, just for him. 

Then his first words register. “I thought I _was_ old enough.”

He chuckles. It rumbles through his chest, and Clarke can feel it _everywhere_. “Old enough for what? You’re much too young to get married.”

“I know _that_ , but— old enough for other things.” 

Uncle Marcus slides one hand down to her hip, playing with the edge of her sweater. “Other things?” he prompts, after a minute, when Clarke doesn’t say anything else.

“Like— kissing,” she says, and she wants it so badly she can feel the blood rushing back into her cheeks. Then, all in a rush, before she loses her courage, she adds, “or, um, Raven’s had sex, and Finn’s younger than I am, so that means _I’m_ old enough too.” She’s thought about it enough, wondered what it might be like to do _that_ with him. As soon as she found out what sex was, she thought about it with him, and every sex scene she sees on tv, every time Raven tells her something new she and Finn have figured out, every time her parents forget to be quiet or don’t realize she’s home, Clarke wonders. 

She wants it so bad she can hardly breathe.

“Hmm. I don’t know,” Uncle Marcus says. “I think you might be too young for all of that.”

“But _Daddy_ ,” Clarke whines, the word slipping out before she even realizes, and she freezes. She hasn’t called him that in years. 

Uncle Marcus’s hand tightens on her hip, and his tongue flicks out against his lips. He takes a deep breath, then says, “I missed that, sweetheart. Always loved hearing you call me that.”

“Daddy,” Clarke sighs, and he groans a little. “When am I gonna be old enough?”

“Soon,” he says. “But you have to be good. Jake and Abby won’t like this. They wouldn’t let me stay if they knew.” His hand smoothes over her hair. When he catches on a tangle, he pulls sharply. The burst of pain sends shivers _everywhere_ , and Clarke bites back a whimper. “You can’t let them know. I need you to be normal when they’re around.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“But if you’re good,” he says, slowly, thinking through it. “Well. Then you might be old enough tomorrow.” 

“Really?” Clarke says, grinning. “Promise?”

“If you’re good,” he says, and presses a warm kiss to her temple. “Now go up to bed. It’s late, and good girls need lots of sleep so they’ll have energy tomorrow.”


	2. and peace attend thee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a traditional griffin family christmas eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "a few days" hahahaha sorry anywhere here's part two, sorry I lied but there's three parts now but in my defense this chapter was already 4x longer than the first one. I'll come back later and clean it up.

Clarke wakes up early the next morning. She always does, when Daddy’s here, like she doesn’t want to miss a minute with him. It’s Christmas Eve, and the most important thing today is spending time together.

Of course, they do have a few traditions to follow. They stay in their pajamas all morning, piled on the couch in the living room watching _White Christmas_. Clarke squeezes in next to Daddy, pressed close against him with her head on his shoulder and his arm around her like they’ve done since she got too big to sit in his lap for a whole movie, Mom and then Dad on her other side. 

It’s almost impossible to pay any attention to the movie, with Daddy so close. Contact isn’t new— he’s been free with hugs and cuddles and comfort her whole life— but now he’s got one finger stroking so gently against her hip, right where her shirt is riding up, and Clarke can hardly breathe for fear he’ll stop.

They take a break at intermission to make brunch, waffles from scratch with mountains of whipped cream and fruit that they eat in front of the tv, sitting on the floor around the coffee table. Dad sprawls out on the floor, and Mom goes to clean up the kitchen, so when Uncle Marcus returns to his spot on the end of the couch, Clarke takes a chance and lays down with her head on his thigh. 

When he doesn’t push her away or tell her to move, Clarke relaxes and pulls a blanket off the back of the couch. Uncle Marcus— _Daddy_ — helps arrange it over her, and as soon as she’s settled, he starts playing with her hair, twisting and gently tugging and scratching at her scalp. Clarke melts into the couch, curling into herself. She can barely pay any attention to the movie, even with Dad laughing and talking back to the screen like he always does. Daddy must be able to tell when she gets used to it because he moves on from her hair. He gently twists her ear lobes, traces swirls along her throat, brushes his fingertips along her jaw, and it’s _so hard_ not to make a sound, not to let her dad know what Daddy’s doing to her. 

Mom comes back too soon, though, and takes her place on the other end of the couch, absently shoving Clarke’s feet out of her way, eyes glued to the screen. There’s not really enough room to lay down anymore, unless she spreads out over her mom too and _that_ doesn’t seem to be something Mom would like, so reluctantly, Clarke sits back up, wrapping herself up in her blanket and keeping a careful distance from Daddy. 

Now that she knows how nice his touch feels on her hair and neck, and how much she likes sitting in his lap, Clarke’s desperate to know what it’s going to feel like when he’s touching her _everywhere_. 

She’s so distracted imagining it that she doesn’t even realize when the movie ends, not until Mom shakes her shoulder and sends her upstairs to get dressed. 

As she passes the front door, she sees Dad outside shoveling the driveway after last night’s snow. She heads up the stairs and sees Marcus in the smaller guest room, the one he always stays in, right across the hall from her room, doing something on his laptop.

When Clarke goes into her bedroom, pausing in the hallway to make sure Mom hasn’t followed her up, she doesn’t shut the door behind her. Feeling braver than she has ever before in her life, she strips off her pajamas and stands in front of her closet in just her underwear. It’s not a pair she would have picked out for Daddy to see her in, plain black cotton with a little bow at the front, nothing exciting, not even a particularly flattering cut, but she’s not quite brave enough to change them for a prettier pair. Having her chest bare, nipples pebbling in the cool air, makes her feel exposed enough. She takes her time pulling her clothes out of the closet, even though she picked out her Christmas Eve outfit weeks ago: black fleece-lined tights, a soft clingy sweater in a pale blue that brings out her eyes, and a tight faux leather skirt that Dad will definitely think is too short. 

Clarke doesn’t start to get dressed until she hears Daddy’s laptop slam shut and the soft pad of footsteps as he steps into his doorway, just a few yards away. When Clarke was really little, Daddy would help her change when her parents were distracted, even bathed her sometimes, and once, at the lake house, Mom even sent her into the shower with him when they were in a rush, while Mom and Dad were in the downstairs shower. But it’s been a few years since he’s seen her in anything less than a towel, and her body has changed a lot.

She slips on the tights first, bending over the way she’s heard guys like, rolling them slowly up her legs. Her bra goes on next, a little awkwardly, but she hopes Daddy won’t mind. It’s boring, nude and satiny without even a hint of lace. Mom still does all of her shopping with her and doesn’t think Clarke has any need for pretty underthings yet. 

She’s not done with the way Daddy’s eyes on her bare skin makes her feel, so she waits to put on the rest. Instead, she wanders over to her vanity, decides to put on some makeup. They always get fancy for Christmas Eve, since they’ll be going to midnight mass anyway. Clarke hasn’t ever bothered with makeup before, but she’s sixteen now. Definitely grown up enough. She doesn’t have that much makeup yet, and nothing too intense. Dad barely lets her wear it at all, and Mom doesn’t think it’s worth fighting over it yet. She brushes on some blush, rubs on some shimmery pale gold eyeshadow then adds some mascara, finishing with a berry-colored lipgloss. It’s so unfair, honestly. Raven’s allowed to go to school with a full face on, and Dad won’t even let Clarke have normal lipstick. 

In the mirror, she can see Daddy still watching her from across the hallway, leaning in the door frame with his arms crossed, making his shoulders look so broad. Clarke tries not to look like she’s paying any attention to him. By the time she finishes with that, she’s starting to feel self-conscious instead of empowered, so she steps into her skirt and pulls the sweater over her head, tucking the front in. 

When she glances back toward Daddy, he’s disappeared back into his room and shut the door. Disappointed, Clarke heads downstairs, but as she’s passing the closed door, she hears Daddy’s low groan, bitten back halfway through. He murmurs something that might be _sweetheart_ , but before she can do more than reach toward the door, Dad calls her down to the kitchen.

The next Griffin family tradition is gingerbread cookie baking. It’s mostly Clarke and Dad, since Mom doesn’t enjoy baking at all. Other years, Mom and Daddy have done something on their own, but now Mom’s sitting at the counter, watching and giving Dad useless advice on how to measure out the dry ingredients. Clarke grabs her holiday apron— white, with a row of pine trees along the hem and Santa in his sleigh arcing across her chest, new this year since she’d _definitely_ outgrown the one she got at eleven— and starts creaming the butter and sugar together. 

Daddy eventually makes it down, ten minutes later. “Gingerbread again?” he asks, pouring himself coffee, topping the snowman mug off with some of the cheap eggnog. Dad’s had a huge mason jar of real eggnog, with rum and brandy, aging in the back of the fridge since New Year’s, but that’s for the adults to drink tomorrow. “You could do something more fun. A house, even,” he adds, but they all know it’s a joke. For all of Dad’s engineering expertise, his cookie construction skills are abysmal. 

“Me and Wells might try next year,” Clarke says over the Kitchenaid. She grabs the eggs off the counter, checks to make sure they’re room temperature, and cracks them one by one into the stand mixer. “ _Without_ Dad’s help.”

“Hey, now,” Dad says, flicking a bit of flour in Clarke’s direction, and after that, it’s almost an ordinary Christmas Eve: finishing off the dough, drinking some hot chocolate by the fire while it chills and Abby gets started on dinner, cutting and baking and icing the cookies, more elaborately than Clarke has any year before. 

The only real differences, aside from the Jahas’ absence, are the way Daddy doesn’t take his eyes off Clarke, the way she has to bite her tongue every time she says something to him and make sure she says _Uncle Marcus_ , the way Clarke twirls and smiles and preens for her Daddy, and the way Jake and Abby keep topping off each others’ hot chocolate’s with enough Baileys that they don’t notice at all.

They don’t get to eat the cookies, of course, not until tomorrow, but Daddy makes sure to admire them, neatly arranged under the glass dome on the dining room table. 

“You’ve outdone yourself this year, sweetheart,” he says, voice just low enough that Dad, setting the table, can’t hear. “Just beautiful,” he says, and then, leaning in just a little closer, “almost as beautiful as you, honey.”

Clarke blushes, and smiles, but then, when Dad goes back into the kitchen for the silverware, Daddy grabs her elbow and tugs her back against him, and she can’t breathe suddenly. One hand smooths over her back, all the way down to her ass. She half expects him to squeeze, but all he does is rest his hand there.

“What a pretty little thing you are, baby,” he says, head bent next to hers, his breath warm on her ear. “Always have been. Showing off for Daddy, letting me see you.”

Clarke doesn’t quite know how he wants her to respond, so she just shrinks into him, his broad chest warm against her back. She feels so small, surrounded by him.

“But I don’t think that’s something good girls do.”

She freezes. “But—” If it was for him, she shouldn’t get in trouble for it.

“Good girls don’t show off their bodies without being told, Clarke,” Daddy says.

Tears spring into her eyes. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I didn’t think I was bad.”

“Oh, honey,” Daddy says. “I was afraid of that. You’re too little to know these things.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Clarke says, but she can hear Dad’s footsteps coming back down the hall, and Daddy releases her. 

He doesn’t get another chance to talk to her in the bustle of getting dinner on the table. Christmas Eve Dinner is always their fancy meal, and this year, Abby has outdone herself. There’s rack of lamb, slowly roasted to perfect tenderness and arranged like a crown on the table, roasted root vegetables, a warm salad, and creamy mushroom soup, with a rustic loaf of bread from the bakery near the hospital. 

They’ve taken the leaves out of the dining room table, with just the four of them, and so Clarke is right next to Daddy, across from her parents. Daddy carves the lamb, and then they pass the rest, and all pretend that they’re eating in some three-starred restaurant, instead of at the table Clarke was using last week for her clay sculpture final. 

As soon as her plate is loaded up and Clarke is all settled back in her seat to eat, she feels the lightest of touches on her knee, just out of sight under the thick linen napkin. She glances across the table at her parents— still filling their own plates— and then over to Daddy, who is taking careful mouthfuls of his soup.

But then, as fingers start to wrap around her thigh, he looks over at her and winks. “What do you think of the soup, honey?” he asks, smiling down at her just like he always has, warm and fond. But there’s something different around his eyes, something sharper and harder, that’s only been there a year or two. 

“It’s _really_ good,” she says, looking up at him through her lashes. “Thanks, Mom.”

To Clarke’s disappointment, Daddy doesn’t try anything else during dinner, just leaves his left hand sitting on Clarke’s thigh when he doesn’t need it to eat, not even attempting to sneak under her skirt at all.

Once they’re all done eating, they linger at the table over their drinks— wine for Daddy and Mom, sparkling water for Clarke and Dad, who has to drive later— while they let the food settle enough for dessert. Clarke, who managed to go back for seconds despite all of the “concerned discussion” from Mom and Dad about whether she’s a growing girl or eating too much, with interjections from Daddy about how Christmas is a special occasion and normal rules don’t matter, still feels ravenous. Empty.

Clarke twists around to grab a candy cane out of the display on the sideboard. When she almost overbalances, Daddy curls his hand around her waist, holding her steady, without pausing in his conversation with Mom at all. Even after Clarke sits back in her seat, he leaves his arm around her, casual as anything, one finger sliding under her sweater to brush against her skin. It’s so close to what he used to do— play with her hair while she leans against his side, or drape his arm across the back of her chair, or tug her into his lap when she was so close to sleep before he’d carry her up to bed— but it all means so much _more_ now. 

Usually, when Clarke eats candy canes, she can’t help biting through it, can’t resist the temptation to feel it crack between her teeth. But she and Octavia and Raven just watched Clueless at their sleepover last week, and she remembers that speech about drawing guys’ attention to your mouth. She unwraps the long end first and starts sucking on the tip, focusing all of her attention on not using her teeth, forgetting even to see if Daddy’s noticing her at all. 

The conversation moves on without her noticing at all, tension rising and falling with the topic— mostly depending on whether Mom and Daddy agree or not, with Dad playing devil’s advocate or mediator, depending. Mom gets louder, and Dad quieter, the more she drinks, until Dad finally gets up to grab the dessert out of the fridge. 

Clarke looks as he leaves, then glances down when a bit of movement catches her eye. As soon as she realizes what it is, she feels warmth and wetness between her legs, and her whole body feels lit up.

Daddy’s _hard_. Because of _Clarke_. His… his _cock_ is pulsing under his slacks, looking absolutely monstrous between his thick thighs. He’s sitting angled toward Clarke so he can keep talking to Mom and Dad while watching her suck the candy cane into a sharp point, licking it down to the curve, watching it redden her lips.

Clarke stares for far longer than she should at Daddy’s cock, absently twisting her tongue around the last couple inches of the candy cane. She could watch him forever, honestly, but then Dad comes back with a tray of eggnog panna cotta, drizzled with cranberry sauce and topped off with a sprinkle of nutmeg, with hazelnut biscotti for dipping. Daddy jerks his arm away from Clarke and drops his napkin back into his lap, and Clarke crunches through the last bit of candy cane. 

Everyone helps clean up after dessert, as is tradition: Clarke and Daddy carrying the dishes into the kitchen while Dad washes and Mom dries, and then Daddy and Clarke put everything away again. 

After delivering the second stack of plates to her parents, Clarke finds Daddy waiting for her in the dining room.

He opens his arms to her, and she melts into him, tucking her head under his chin and wrapping her arms around his waist. 

“Daddy,” she murmurs, letting out a sigh when his hand slides down her back all the way to her ass. “Hi, daddy.” He holds her so tightly. Clarke _loves_ it. 

“Hi, baby girl,” he says, soft so the running water will mask his words, and Clarke can hear the smile in his voice. If she didn’t know him so well, she’d think he was making fun of her, _teasing_ her. But she’s known him since the day she was born, and she can tell she makes him happy too. Daddy squeezes her ass, pulling her against his body, and even though he’s not as hard as he was earlier, she can still feel him against her stomach. “You’re being such a little slut for daddy, aren’t you?” Clarke pulls back to protest the word— being a slut is _bad_ , Wells told her— but when she looks up at Daddy’s face, all she can see is his fondness for her. 

So maybe Daddy wants her to be a little slut for him. 

Still, just in case, Clarke says, “Sorry, daddy,” into his chest, hiding her blush. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I could never be mad at you. You’re being so good to me,” he says, cupping on hand around her jaw and tilting her face up towards his. “Showing off your pretty little body and your perfect little mouth for me.” He brushes her thumb over her lips, and laughs when Clarke kisses it, tries to catch it in her teeth. “That’s what good little sluts do for their daddies.”

Clarke smiles wide up at him. “Am I being good enough for…” She pauses, unsure of how to ask. “Am I big enough today, daddy?”

He leans down, presses a kiss to each cheek then the tip of her nose. “Almost, baby. You need to be patient.” After squeezing her tight one last time, Daddy releases her and picks up the empty wine glasses. “Now be a good girl, and come help.”

By the time the kitchen and dining room are all cleaned up, there’s only an hour and a half left until the midnight mass. It’s not actually at midnight, of course, since Dad doesn’t like staying up that late, but a church in the next town over has their service at nine. 

They scatter to freshen up and find shoes and coats then pile into Dad’s car, the Mustang GT he got after his promotion in the spring, Mom sitting shotgun. Daddy sits behind her since there’s more legroom on that side. 

They take the long way to church, driving through neighborhoods with the top down to look at the lights. The Griffins live in a middling neighborhood in a wealthy suburb, and plenty of people go all out decorating. When Clarke was little, they’d just walk around their own block, but now they have their favorite neighborhoods, a handful of familiar houses that always outdo last year’s display. 

When Clarke shivers, Daddy puts his arm around her and pulls her against his side, rests his other hand high on her thigh. She lets her legs part, head turned away from him. 

Daddy doesn’t do that much, really, just slides his hand up under her skirt, petting between her legs with his fingertips while Mom and Dad point out particularly pretty houses. Clarke’s never really touched herself before, it never felt as good as Josie always claimed it did. But Daddy’s fingers, even through two layers of fabric, feel so much nicer than when she tried. He knows just where to touch her to make her squirm, sending shockwaves through parts of her body she never realized were connected: her chest, her spine, the back of her thighs, between her legs. 

But just when the feelings start to overwhelm, when she can feel the wetness soaking her tights, they pull into the church parking lot, and Daddy lets her go.

It’s been eight months since Clarke’s been to Mass, but the rituals are still familiar enough that she doesn’t need to think about it. She stands, she kneels, responds to the priest along with everyone else. When they line up for the Eucharist, Clarke almost doesn’t go, knowing that everything she’s done today has been sin, but Mom glares until she goes. Daddy goes too, and he goes to mass much more often than any of the Griffins do, after his mom passed, and if it’s okay for him to go then Clarke thinks she’s fine, too. 

It’s a madhouse trying to get back to the car, enough that Daddy grabs Clarke’s hand before they even leave their pew. The whole way home, Daddy keeps hold of her hand. His is so much bigger than hers, strong and burning warm and nicer than Riley’s when he snuck into the line between her and Harper when they were supposed to find a buddy so no one would get lost on their field trip into the city. It’s much nicer having Daddy tug her behind him, back into the house. Clarke loves how he squeezes her hand before finally letting go, like he’s telling her he doesn’t want to stop touching her. He helps take her coat off, unwinds the thick scarf from around her neck, holds her steady while she kicks off her boots. 

While Mom and Dad hug her goodnight at the top of the stairs, Daddy disappears into his room without a word to Clarke. She tries to hide her disappointment with sleepiness, and it’s probably enough that her parents don’t realize. They go into their bedroom and lock the door behind them, and after a minute, Clarke hears some soft Christmas music. When Clarke was younger, they’d sneak back out once she was asleep to put the presents out, but now they just set an alarm and put them out before Clarke wakes up. 

By the end of the first song, there’s still no sign of Daddy, so Clarke goes into her own room, leaving the door open behind her. When she turns the light on, she gasps at the sight of a wrapped gift at the foot of her bed.

She opens it as quietly as she can, slicing through the tape with her fingernail and unfolding the paper. It’s almost too pretty to open, probably wrapped at the store because Daddy usually just uses bags, all white and silver snowflakes. 

The box doesn’t have any label on it, and the white tissue paper inside doesn’t offer any clues either. It’s awfully difficult to peel away the layers, way more than Daddy would have put in himself, but it’s absolutely worth it when she sees her presents.

Inside the box is a stack of nightgowns. They’re all white, but not the same designs or fabric. Clarke runs back to shut the door, just in case, and then lays them all out on the bed to inspect them. 

The first is satin, without any decorations except for a little bow sitting between the two triangles that would cover her breasts. It’s not very long, only reaching to mid-thigh, and there are slits on either side that would show off her panties.

If she were wearing any.

The next one is all lace, softer than it looks, with a sweetheart neckline, tight around her chest, and then flowing loosely over her hips. If the first one looked too grown-up for Clarke, this one looks way too beautiful, meant for someone elegant and soft and treated tenderly by someone special. 

The last one seems much more comfortable, the most like something Clarke would pick for herself. It’s made of something soft, like the most perfect t-shirt, with cap sleeves and a low swooping neckline and ruffles along the edges. 

Beneath that is one last surprise, a silky black robe with lace panels, just long enough to reach her knees.

Clarke knows she’ll have to be so careful to hide them, not to let her parents see, but she _loves_ them all, even the ones that don’t feel like her. Maybe when she grows up they’ll fit her better.

She strips out of her clothing quickly, slips on the last nightgown, then twists and turns in front of her mirror to see if she likes it.

It fits perfectly, of course. Mom always tells Daddy when her sizes change. He’s been buying her clothes as long as she can remember, and she's always loved what he picks out for her.

She shrugs the robe on over and inspects her reflection. It doesn’t look quite right, like they don’t really match. But she leaves it on while she runs down the hallway to the bathroom, just in case. 

Clarke emerges, fifteen minutes later, all fresh and clean and ready for bed, to a silent hallway. She shrugs the robe off and tosses it at her bed, then slips down the stairs.

There’s just one more tradition to follow, before she can sleep.

It’s silly, of course. She’s known since she was seven that Santa’s not real, and her parents realized she knew when she was eleven, but still, Clarke pulls out a plate and arranges a couple of her gingerbread cookies on it, pours a glasses of milk, and goes into the living room.

The fire’s been out since the afternoon, of course, but the Christmas lights are still on. Clarke sets her offerings in the spot left clear on the mantle, and when she turns around, Daddy’s there, leaning against the archway into the dining room.

Clarke jumps a bit. He came in so quietly, she didn’t realize. 

“Do you like your presents, baby girl?” he asks, voice pitched low. Not that it really matters. The master bedroom is at the other end of the house; her parents can’t even hear the tv from there. 

“Yes, daddy, thank you.”

Daddy changed too, into a pair of soft gray flannel pants, a thin white shirt. Clarke can just make out the shadow of hair through the fabric.

“Take off the robe, honey,” he says, and Clarke obeys, letting it fall to the floor behind her. “Let me get a good look at you.”

It’s a little awkward, at first, just standing there while Daddy just looks, but then he starts getting hard again, pulsing against the fabric of his pants, and then it’s easier to twist and arch her back so she looks nicer.

“Pretty baby. Knew you’d look perfect in that, just how daddy wants. Sweet little thing.” His eyes track up and down her body, so hungry that Clarke can’t stand to watch him.

He crosses the room toward her, stopping a few feet short. Clarke wants to go to him, wants to be wrapped up safe in his arms, but she knows he wouldn’t like it. “I was hoping I could give these to you, this year. Daddy needs you all dressed up for him.”

“Does that mean I’m old enough now, Daddy?” Clarke doesn’t feel old enough, standing barefoot with her godfather, in a little white nightgown just like the ones she wore when she was little. But little girls aren’t supposed to _want_ like this, so maybe she’s old enough after all.

Daddy finally closes the distance between them, sets his hands firmly on her hips. “I think you just might be, sweetheart. Old enough for a few treats.”

Clarke smiles wide up at him, hands landing on his chest. “Really? Thank you, daddy.”

“But,” he says, stern, “you have to listen to daddy. And you have to be quiet.”

Clarke nods, and he leans down to press a kiss to her head. But when she tilts her head back, lips pouting in hopes of a kiss, he laughs, softly and almost mean. “No, baby, you’re too little for kisses. Daddy’s going to make you feel good another way.”

He picks her up, like it’s nothing, as little effort for him now as it’s ever been, and sets her down in the chair next to the tree. “You wearing anything under that little nightgown, princess?” he asks as he kneels in front of her. 

“Uh-huh.” It’s clear enough that she’s not wearing a bra, the way her nipples pebbled in the cold, clearly outlined by the thin fabric, but she still has her underwear on.

“Show daddy.”

She tugs up the front of her nightgown, letting Daddy see the panties underneath. It’s a simple pair, pale pink with black polka dots and a little black bow in the front. 

“So pretty,” he says, and then he slides his hands up her legs, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. “Let’s get them out of the way.”

Clarke lifts her hips up as he tugs them back down. No one’s ever seen her like this, bare and close. If it were anyone else but Daddy, it would be too terrifying to bear.

But Daddy knows her, and loves her, and has seen every other inch of her. “Yes, daddy,” she says, a long moment too late.

He just smiles. “Daddy’s going to give you your treat now, okay sweetheart? Just let Daddy make you feel good.” 

Daddy sits back to take another long look at her, sitting in Mom’s favorite chair with her legs spread wide, nightgown bunched up at her waist. Clarke knows she’s been wet since she opened her present, and now Daddy knows, and can see her and _smell_ her which seems just wrong, but he leans in, and breathes deep, and nuzzles into her thigh, kissing his way higher and higher, so he must like her just as she is. 

Josie told her about this, since Gabriel’s one of the only boys willing to do it, but it far exceeds her descriptions. Daddy licks at her like she’s water in a desert, like he’s desperate, like he’ll die if he can’t get closer. He starts off pressing kisses all over her, even over the tangle of dark golden curls, and gets his hands under her ass so he can position her just where he wants her, so she’s spread open for him. 

Once Clarke’s gotten used to the feeling of a mouth against her cunt, he starts using his tongue, first teasing at her entrance, then sweeping all over her in long strokes, licking away every drop of wetness.

“So sweet,” he murmurs, eyes dark and heavy. “Knew you’d be delicious.” 

As soon as she starts whimpering, wound up tighter and tighter with no idea how to find release, he eases off, and Clarke can’t help but let out a long whine.

“Daddy’s the only one who can make you feel like this. You won’t let anyone else near your little pussy, right honey? Not if you want to be Daddy’s wife someday. Need you all to myself.”

He gives her one last lick, and then his mouth latches on to her clit, tongue flicking at her, and he almost drives her over the edge in a matter of seconds. But he knows, as soon as she gets close, and he slows again. “Promise Daddy,” he says, breathing harshly. “You’ll only be mine.”

“I promise,” Clarke gasps out, and he gets his tongue back on her clit, overwhelming and perfect. “Just yours, daddy, _please_ , I need- need my daddy.”

Finally, _finally_ he stays steady on her, forcing an orgasm on her, hard and fast and irresistible. While she comes back down, he fucks into her with the tip of his tongue, catching every drop of her. Once she’s settled, breathing steady again, he pulls away, hands resting on her thighs.

“Good girl.” 

He stands, helps her up, drapes her robe over her shoulders. “Such a good girl.” 

Clarke can barely stand up, can hardly _think_ , and Daddy laughs at her dazed expression. “Such a sleepy baby,” he says. “Need your rest for tomorrow.” He shepherds her toward the stairs, hand firm on her back as she stumbles up.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead, mouth still wet with her, and he’s never broken a promise to her in her whole life.

_Tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh no promises about when part three will be up.


End file.
